


Class Speeches Should Be Erradicated

by saidno1ever



Category: Death Note
Genre: Anxiety, Intrusive Thoughts, L is a good brother, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 02:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3673521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saidno1ever/pseuds/saidno1ever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beyond has obsessive-compulsive disorder, school only makes it worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Class Speeches Should Be Erradicated

L glanced at his watch before sighing quietly. At the rate of this progression, they were never going to get to the bus stop. He looked back to his twin brother who was counting all the forks and knives in the drawer, before meticulously stacking them back in the correct slots.

“Beyond, I assure you. There are exactly twenty-four forks and twenty-three knives. You did not accidentally stab someone with them.”

“I know. I know. But I just have to make sure. Sorry L, I’m almost done.” B said, tiredly. This was the fifth time this morning, which was worse than usual. He couldn’t help it, though. There was an oral essay due in Literature today and even though he had read through it thirteen-hundred times and memorized it on the second try, he was still a nervous wreck.

L, thank whatever forces watched over them, was patient as ever, even taking the time to grab B’s book bag and make him breakfast. He stood by the front door, occasionally peeking out to ensure that the bus hadn’t come early.

B put the last knife on the stack, his mouth forming the words “twenty-two”. B scrunched his eyebrows together as his he felt the panic rise in his chest. Had he counted wrong? Were there really twenty-two? There weren’t any knives in the sink so where-?

“I see the bus.”

Shit.

B snatched the stack out of its place, letting the knives spill across the space in front of him, “Wait L, there’s only twenty-two!”

“I probably just messed you up with my earlier statement. There are without a doubt twenty-three.”

“But I-“

“We have to go.” L said, firmly. He had already swung his bag on, and now offered B his.

“I have to- I have to count again! What if I hurt someone?” B gasped, his heart hammering.

“You didn’t hurt anyone.” L said in the same unshaken voice. He grabbed B’s arms this time and forcefully pulled him away from the counter.

An involuntary whine escaped B’s throat as he tried to count them from a growing distance. It wasn’t the same. It- he needed to pick them up and make sure. There was no way to tell if he hurt someone if he didn’t finish counting the knives. This was horrible. B could feel himself slowly losing control. He would snap and kill L. Stab him in the liver then cut away his flesh until there was nothing but blood and organs and-

“Beyond.”

B found himself unable to answer, staring pointedly out of the window of the bus they had just entered. L was sitting beside him, preventing him from doing something insane, like sprinting down the aisle and diving through the front window.

 

School was not good. B had literature first period, which was thirty-one minutes and fifty-seven seconds away. His mind kept buzzing back between the knives and the essay. Both competing against each other to melt his brain the fastest. All he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry.

“Alright who wants to go first?” The teacher asked.

There was simply no way B was in literature. He had been in the cafeteria with L and there was still thirty-one minutes and seventy-five seconds- wait, no, that wasn’t right and where was L? Was he okay? What if there was a school shooting and L got hurt- what if he got killed? What were they gonna do? There was no-

“Okay. Beyond, I guess you’re up first.”

The world stopped. All oxygen was suddenly sucked out of the room and all eyes moved to B. His body moved without his permission, legs walking him to the front of the classroom, and hands gripping the two pages of his essay. When had he taken it out of his bag?

“You can start whenever you’re ready.” The teacher spoke.

B looked at the first page in his hands and suddenly the words were scribbles. They didn’t make sense and it didn’t matter that he had had it memorized.

“Uh,” B started, suddenly thinking about the knife, “Everyone g-gets labelled. It’s, um, it’s human nature t-to do so.”

Everyone was staring at him, judging him with their glares because they knew. They knew that he was a killer and any moment now the firing squad would rush in and shoot him down, because he was a killer and he killed some poor innocent person with a kitchen knife because he was messed up and horrible and just- 

B came back to the present when he felt someone gently steering him toward the hallway. He was still holding the pages of his essay in a death grip but now there were tears streaming down in his face and ugly choking noises emitting from his throat. Whoever was pushing him, took him straight to the nurses’ office. The person exchanged a few words with the nurse before nudging B to sit on one of the resting beds.

B continued to sob as he sat there, holding his essay. He wasn’t sure how much time passed before L entered the room. He said nothing at first, simply sitting beside his twin and rubbing soothing circles into his back.

“You can stop crying already. Dad is on his way.”

B could barely get a response out, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s something you can’t help.” L mumbled.

“But it’s ridiculous!”

“It isn’t. Seventy-four percent of the population suffer from the fear of public speaking.”

“But-“

“And ninety-four percent have Obsessive Compulsive-“

“Tendencies.” B finished.

L’s hand stopped mid-circle, “I was hoping I’d get you with that one.”

“Of course I know the statistics for my disorder, L.” B said, surprisingly level.

L grinned “But statistics are supposed to be my thing.”

B couldn’t help grinning back, “Fine, then what are the chances of you coming home with me?”

“I’d say they are ninety-nine point nine.”

B smiled a little more, feeling the last of the panic attack fade, “Thanks L.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just something I wrote when I couldn't sleep


End file.
